It Started With A Cold
by A Sociopath With the Phonebox
Summary: John catches a cold seemingly out of nowhere, and he soon finds that it's much worse than just that.
1. Cold

"ACHOO!"

"John, that's the fifth time in the past ten minuets that you've sneezed." Sherlock stopped playing his violin; he was on a case and decided to play to speed up his thought process. "Are you catching a cold?"

"Probably," John sniffed, "But I dunno why-a-a-ACHOO!" He sneezed again. His flatmate handed him a tissue delicately suspended on his violin bowstring. "Thag you very buch."

Sherlock just gave a small "Hm," in response and went back to playing. He played as loudly as he could to drown out the noise of John blowing his nose.

John shakily stood from his chair. "Look, Sherlock, I'b going to bed." Again, he only received a small "Hm." as a response. The ex-army doctor walked towards the stairs, but stopped before he reached them. "…What day is it?"

"Thursday." Sherlock responded, stopping the music for a split second.

"I beant of the bonth." John said, annoyed that his nose was stuffed up, causing his head to hurt.

"September 19; why?" The detective looked at him.

John shrugged. "Dunno, just felt like sobthing ibportant was cobing up."

Sherlock just nodded and went back to playing. John found his way up the stairs and into his bed, not even caring that he was still fully dressed. He barely just remembered to take his shoes off as he drifted off to sleep, hoping it would remedy his sudden unexplainable sickness.

What he didn't realize, however, that it was only going downhill from there.


	2. Food and Hair

John opened his eyes a few hours after he fell asleep. The noon sun that he'd last seen had begun to set and it hit his bedroom window just right, making it pierce his eyes and burn them. He rolled over to avoid the sun when he realized his stomach hurt. _Why?_ He wondered._ Is it nausea? Is it another stage of sickness? Is it-_

A low, loud grumbling noise answered his question. He was hungry. Really, really hungry.

John pulled himself out of bed and, after stopping at is bedside to let the throbbing in his head subside, continued out the door without consulting the mirror hanging on the opposite wall to check how messy his hair had become, like he usually did. He found that he was able to breath through his nose once more, but his headache still remained.

Stumbling down the steps, he heard Sherlock still playing his violin (John wouldn't admit it in front of his friend, but he didn't consider playing the same two slow notes over and over again to be 'playing an instrument'). As quietly as he could, he made his way into the kitchen and found some food that, luckily, had yet to be contaminated by Sherlock's experiments. John hadn't even realized how big of a plate he made for himself until he dropped a fork and broke Sherlock's concentration, causing him to turn around to the kitchen.

"You're _really_ going to eat all that?" The detective asked, eyeing John's meal.

The ex-army doctor looked at the food in his hands and on the table in front of him. "It's not _that_ much."

"Two apples, three bananas, a rather large bowl of cereal, a glass of orange juice, and two peanut-butter-and-jam-sandwiches _is not that much_!?"

"…I'm just _really_ hungry as of right now, that's all."

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow and almost went back to playing again when he noticed something else odd. "Your hair is darker."

"Hm?" John asked through a mouthful of banana.

"Your hair- when you went upstairs, it was a light-brown shade. Now it's auburn, and a bit longer and curlier, if I'm not mistaken." Sherlock gestured to his flatmate's head.

John rolled his eyes and swallowed the last bit of his first banana. "Come on, you can't be serious."

"I _am_ serious, John! Just look in a mirror!" Sherlock angrily yet carefully set his violin down and walked over to the kitchen.

"When I'm done, I'll go." John ate his third spoonful of cereal after his remark. He finished his cereal in record time and immediately went on to his apples, then his other two bananas, then his sandwiches and orange juice, which he refilled twice. Despite eating so much so fast, he made very little mess and kept his manners about him whilst doing so. Sherlock watched him with rapt attention, trying to pinpoint just what was wrong with his friend. In the detective's opinion, John was eating like someone who had neglected meals for over a day; he excluded himself from this factor.

When John finished, he took his time standing up and leaving the kitchen, just to irk his friend, though not before grabbing a biscuit on the way. Sherlock followed, asking, "You're supposed to be sick- _how_ did you manage to eat all that?" The ex-army doctor just shrugged. "No human being should ever be able to eat like that!"

"And no human being should ever be able to skip sleep for three days and still function like he got twelve hours of it each night." John retorted, munching away on his biscuit as he approached the bathroom. He opened the door, switched on the light, and looked in the mirror.

Sherlock was right–his hair was considerably darker than before, and longer and curlier than he had last seen it. John stared a long while at the mirror, trying to figure out if the man staring back at him was _really_ him. He then turned to Sherlock and asked, "This isn't just a joke of yours, is it?"

"John, why on earth would I do something like this?"

"Why would you put heads in the fridge when I clearly told you not to?"

"…Point taken. But no, I did not do this." Sherlock flipped a lock of John's hair into his eyes, as if trying to prove a point, and began walking out of the bathroom.

John scowled and pulled his hair behind his ear. "Sherl-ah…"

"What?" Sherlock looked behind him.

"Ah…!" John's face contorted into something like a grimace.

"What? What's wrong?" Sherlock walked back over to his friend.

"Ah-ACHOO!" John sneezed, not catching all of it in his hands, causing it to hit Sherlock square in the face. "Oh, sorry…"

Sherlock just stood there for a few moments, eyes closed, then groped about for the hand-towel near the door, wiping his face. "Maybe you should take something for your nose…"

"Do we even hab any bedicine?" John asked, his nose stuffing up once more.

"I don't know, you're the doctor around here!" Sherlock walked out of the bathroom and moments later, the sound of his violin filled the flat. John searched the medicine cabinets and found only toxic chemicals that he daren't touch and the occasional human body part. He shut the cabinets and walked back to his bedroom once more, hoping that this time, sleep would help.


End file.
